


In Which John Hurts

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Poor John, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I brush my lips down the line of his cheekbone. In my mind, we're already moving together in the dark, our bodies fitted tightly at the hips and my face pressed into Sherlock's warm, lush curls. I want him. I want him so badly that I ache with it.</p><p>Sherlock sighs- not a contented sigh, but a long-suffering one- and I stop myself short. "It's been nearly a month," I breathe into his ear, landing a soft kiss there before adding, "Don't you want it?" I can't believe that he'll actually say "no"; the idea of it, of him not needing this as badly as I do, is impossible to entertain.</p><p>But then he says it- "No," his voice so cool and distant that it stops my breath in my throat- and I step back.</p><p>(Can be a read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John Hurts

_John:_

I brush my lips down the line of his cheekbone. In my mind, we're already moving together in the dark, our bodies fitted tightly at the hips and my face pressed into Sherlock's warm, lush curls. I want him. I want him so badly that I ache with it.

Sherlock sighs- not a contented sigh, but a long-suffering one- and I stop myself short. "It's been nearly a month," I breathe into his ear, landing a soft kiss there before adding, "Don't you want it?" I can't believe that he'll actually say "no"; the idea of it, of him not needing this as badly as I do, is impossible to entertain.

But then he says it- "No," his voice so cool and distant that it stops my breath in my throat- and I step back. He's looking at me as if he expects me to break down, and I'm surprised to find he's nearly right: my hands are trembling and my throat is tight.

"I-" I pause, clear my throat. "I'm sorry, I was under the impression-"

When Sherlock laughs, there isn't a touch of humor in it. "If it surprises you to find that you've surmised our little situation incorrectly," he smiles, his eyes glittering like I haven't seen since Baskerville, "then you're even more stupid than I'd guessed. Bravo."

"Stop it, Sherlock." I step back, my jaw clenched and my throat unbearably dry. "You want your space, fine, I'll let you alone. But don't start-"

"Don't tell me what to start," he hisses, stepping right up to me, and if I didn't love him I would push him away from me and make it  _hurt_ …but I do, so I don't. Instead I just put my hands behind my back (they steady me, and they're less dangerous back there) and tilt my chin up so I can look into his eyes. This seems to amuse him, and there's a touch of laughter in his voice as he drawls, "I indulge your whims on occasion, John, yes- but only when it suits  _me_." Sherlock huffs out a breath in an imitation of a laugh. "Frankly, your desperation is beginning to repulse me." He turns back to the window, his eyes following the rain that streaks down the panes in wide rivulets, and I have to step away from him, put my hands to my cheeks, look at anything else but the smug set of his jaw.

"You're not even human sometimes, I swear it." I whisper this to the carpet because I can't look at him, not right now, and if I speak any louder than this I'll be screaming the words at him and poor Mrs. Hudson will suddenly become overly privy to the strangest and worst-kept secret of my life.

"What did you expect, John?" I can feel Sherlock staring at me, deducing my every thought from the lines of my face, and I almost want to beg him to stop but I keep my mouth shut, pursed, and let him go on. "Did you think this would fix me? Oh, all Sherlock needed was a few good shags to turn him into a real boy," he sing-songs, and finally I get it.

I look up at him sharply, and he knows. I know he knows. "You're scared," I say softly. I expect his reaction, so I don't flinch when Sherlock suddenly throws one of Mrs. Hudson's favorite teacups at the wall. It shatters, of course it does, the dregs running down the wall slowly, and I don't even acknowledge it. My hands have gone behind my back again, and my chin has lifted. Because now that I understand it, I can deal with it: Sherlock loves me and he's scared to death.

"I don't," Sherlock spits. "I can see what you're thinking and you're wrong. It's flattering, really, this torch you carry for me, but you're wrong and-"

"Sherlock." I can't help it; I have to touch him. I set my hand so slowly, so carefully on his arm and try not to wince at the way he flinches away from me. God, he's practically gasping, and his eyes are going red, and all I want to do is hold him and make it better but he won't  _let_ me and it's so frustrating that I grit my teeth against it. "Bloody Christ, Sherlock," I swear as he turns away, pressing himself right up against the window and covering his face with his hands. "You're not in this alone, mate. I'm here. Let me help you."

"I don't need you." His voice is quiet but hard, a warning not to touch him again. I run my tongue over my lips, thinking as hard as I can. What can I do? I had a similar crisis, I suppose, when I realized I was in love with an unruly, asexual,  _male_ consulting detective, but I dealt with it okay. It was easier for me, though. But then, I've never tried to convince myself that I'm too damn proud to feel actual human emotions.

"Whatever you need from me," I reiterate, because I'm not sure what else to say and because I want him to know that I mean this, "I'll give it you. I promise you that, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere, not unless you want me to."

"God, would you listen to yourself?" He shoves off from the window and rounds on me again, his eyes wet and his nose pink. "You want to help me? Then kindly take your foolish homoerotic fantasies and push them on somebody else; I haven't the time or the interest to deal with them." Sherlock's hand comes up, solid but trembling, and plants itself into my chest, throwing me a little off-kilter as he stalks away. I can't decide what's more alarming: that I watch him go and it feels like my whole world is stomping away down the stairs, or that I'm honestly considering running after him because it's cold and he forgot his coat.

"Damn you, Sherlock," I mutter as the downstairs door slams shut. I sink down into my favorite chair, my breath shaky and my eyes stinging, and I hate him. I love him, God I love him, but I hate him, too. And it doesn't matter because no matter how I feel, love or hate, it  _hurts_. I hurt. And I'm getting too old for it.


End file.
